A/N: Wow. I just realized that there's a Band of Brothers fanfic category. How exciting! J This is a one-shot that I wrote after I saw the series. I hope you enjoy. Please review!

TO FORGET

~*~

He felt the alcohol burn his throat as he took another swig of whiskey. Damn, it was good. Good enough to quench his thirst. Good enough to ease the pain. Good enough to make him forget.

Forgetting was ideal to surviving in war. How else were you supposed to forget those bloody, disfigured bodies? Bodies of boys barely old enough to buy cigarettes, boys who had never left home, boys who never had a steady girlfriend. These boys, these children, had been wrenched from their mothers' grasps, thrown into training camp, then pushed out into the blood-strewn battlefield with nothing but their guns and ammunition to prevent them from immediate death.

Some of them hadn't been so lucky.

Taking another gulp, Nixon felt the liquid's calming powers overtake him. How nice it was not to have to think. Just drink, and relax, drink, and relax, drink, and relax…drink until you passed out, relax until you don't care about anything. Worked like a charm.

"Nix?"

Nixon sighed heavily and took another hearty sip of his drink before responding, "What?"

He heard Winters enter behind him, his highly-polished boots contacting the wooden floor with an admirable ease, as if he weren't at war, but at an uppity social function. Nixon didn't bother to turn around, deciding instead to finish the last of the whiskey in the bottle in one final gulp.

"Just thought I'd see how you were doing," came the quiet response.

"Yeah. Thanks."

In the long pause that followed those words, Nixon heaved himself to a standing position, leaning on the oak desk for support. The room spun around him and his eyes watered, but he refused to let it show. His stomach churned unpleasantly as he made his way past Winters toward the doorway. He stepped out of the room and made it halfway down the hall before his surroundings began to spin more violently than before. He made for the wall to keep his balance, but found his knees had lost their strength and began to give way. Unable to do anything in his drunken state, he had enough sense to brace himself, expecting to make contact with the hard floor.

It never came.

Strong hands grabbed under his arms before he had fallen and were now heaving him back towards his bedroom. Pride forgone, Nixon allowed the man to help him into bed, and to throw the warm blankets over his tired and aching body. He meant to utter a slurred 'thank you', but his lips were uncooperative. He managed a grateful grunt before closing his eyes. He felt his body relax, his mind grow numb, and felt his lungs fill with the faintly scented European air…

…the air rustled his dark hair as he watched his men proceed into the city.  His heart raced with fear at the very thought of what awaited them. The Nazis would not give up their capital without a hell of a fight; he just wished that his men would survive it.

The deep boom of artillery filled his ears, and he whipped out his binoculars. Barrage after barrage cut holes in Easy Company's lines. Men were falling like leaves in autumn, collapsing in a bloody mess onto the grassy ground. Nixon screamed for them to move faster, to keep moving, to find cover…but nobody seemed to be listening.

Now came the machine gun fire. By God, they were dropping like flies…mowed down, row by row, by enemy crossfire before they could even permeate the outer-most area of the city. Sniper fire from atop of buildings plucked off the field officers right before his very eyes…he heard himself scream incoherently, something about moving farther to the left to try to flank the Germans. But his hoarse voice was drowned out by the screaming of the dying men intertwined with the ongoing barrage of the Kraut artillery.

From the corner of his eye, Nixon saw a man running forth from the safety of the command post towards the battle, his gun drawn, his face set and determined, his mouth open, screaming for his men to push forward, for them to keep moving. His bold eyes and red hair drew fire from the Kraut machine guns, and the man dove behind an outcropping of bushes to avoid being shot to death.

Nixon tore his eyes away from the man and looked to his left, his eyes finding Colonel Sink who was now screaming at the red-haired man to get his ass back to where it was safe. But Nixon knew Winters better than that: he would rather die trying to help his men than sit and watch them all be butchered.

Winters ignored Sink's shouting and continued to crouch behind the outcropping. He lifted his head slightly from behind the bushes, surveying the dire situation that Easy Company had fallen into. Nixon watched numbly as Winters mustered up his strength, rolled out from behind his shielding, and sprinted straight for the city of Berlin.

He didn't get far.

A sniper shot, quick, clean, and professional hit Winters squarely in the chest. Nixon saw Winters arch backwards, reeling from the blow. He dropped his gun as he fell backwards, almost gracefully, before he hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Before he noticed, Nixon found himself sprinting towards his wounded friend. Screaming for a medic, he ignored the machine gun fire that was aiming directly at him. He reached Winters and pulled him behind the outcropping a few feet away, watching as a trail of blood was left behind from his friend's wound. He knelt beside Winters, begging him to wake up…

Where the fuck is that medic?

…wake up, Dick, wake up…

But he didn't wake up. His eyes were closed, as if in a peaceful sleep, his chest bleeding heavily, his body still warm, his face still flushed.

Medic…where is that goddamn medic?

Nixon reached his hand toward Winter's chest, pressing hard on the wound to try to stem the blood from flowing freely. He felt the sticky liquid begin to saturate the sleeves of his uniform as he kept screaming for a medic, for anyone…

But he knew he was dead. Major Richard Winters was dead. His only friend, his only confidant, the only officer who gave a damn about his men…he was dead.

Dead…

"…dead?"

No, you can't die…not now…not like this…

"…you dead, Nix?"

Oh God…don't die…

"NIX!"

He awoke with a start, his heart pounding, his face sweaty. Blinking his tired eyes, he struggled to sit up, to stand up, to find the command post and ask why the hell they had attacked Berlin…why hadn't they let the Russians deal with it?

"No, I don't think so, Lew. You're not going anywhere."

"What the hell…?" He continued to struggle against the restraining hands, but the exhaustion returned in a matter of seconds, and he resigned his losing battle. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at his restrainer, a man with bold blue eyes and red hair…

"Holy shit," he murmured, ignoring the unpleasant churning in his stomach and the omnipresent pounding in his head.

"Good morning to you too," Winters responded, grinning.

"But you're dead," Nixon protested, his brain unresponsive, not able to comprehend how the hell his friend was alive.

The major seemed shocked for a minute, his eyes narrowing and his smile fading slightly. "No, not dead. Not yet, at least."

"But…at Berlin…you ran out after Easy…you…" Nixon struggled to understand, but his tired brain and his blinding headache refused to let up. He squinted against the bright morning light streaming through the window, straining to look into the face of a friend who he thought he had lost.

"Berlin?" Winters seemed even more amused now. "I think you've had too much to drink, Nix."

"We weren't at Berlin?" He knew he sounded stupid, but he couldn't help it. His dream had been so real, so disturbingly tangible…

"No, we weren't. The Russians are taking care of Berlin, remember?" he laughed, his eyes twinkling, apparently enjoying Nixon's overly-drunk conversation.

"This isn't fucking funny, Dick," he retorted, rubbing his eyes and wiping the sweat from his forehead. "It's not funny at all."

Winter's laughter died down immediately. Hesitating only slightly, he sat down next to Nixon, turning his head to peer directly at him. "What? What's wrong?"

Still feeling foolish and still very much disturbed by his dream, he only shook his head. "Forget it. Stupid dream, that's all."

"Well, you seem really upset. It couldn't have been that stupid if you're still thinking about it."

"No," Nixon pressed, now rubbing his sore neck, "no, it's nothing. Forget it."

"You're sweating. You're pale. You look like hell. It's not nothing."

"Do you have a goddamn answer for everything?"

"As an officer, I'd like to think so."

Nixon snorted, turning to look at the major. Winters' piercing gaze made Nixon shift uncomfortably, turning his eyes to avoid his friend's questioning look. He cleared his throat and surveyed his room, noticing the six empty whiskey bottles sitting on top of his oak desk at the far side of the room.

He looked from his desk, to the floor, to the ceiling, to the window, and still he could feel Winters' look. "Jesus Christ, alright. You want to know what my dream was about? It was about Berlin. About shitty Berlin. About how we would invade it. About how our men were being cut down, butchered like cattle. About how they couldn't stand a chance, about how I saw at least fifty men being slaughtered by those Kraut bastards." Nixon's voice was growing louder, his eyes wide, his hand gestures becoming more overt. "You, being the goddamn hero, couldn't stand to see this. So you run your ass out there, carrying your gun, screaming at Easy to move forward, to keep going, to never stop. And then – and then – " Nixon stuttered, almost unable to go on. He began shaking slightly as his head continued to thud painfully. "And then a sniper shot you. Fucking shot you right in the chest. I ran out to get you, I screamed for a medic, but you were already dead."

Nixon cleared his throat and ran a hand through his damp hair in a desperate attempt to calm himself. "That's what my damn dream was about. Now you understand why I'm a little upset."

Deafening silence filled the room as he struggled to compose himself. He knew how he looked, and would give anything so that Winters didn't have to see him like this. Dick was so calm and collected that nothing could faze him; the man had never swore, had never taken a drink in his life. Nixon suddenly felt extremely self-conscious.

"Well…I'm not dead."

Nixon rolled his eyes. "No shit."

"Seriously. I'm not dead…and neither are you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that maybe you should stop blaming yourself for situations that are out of your control," Winters said quietly, still peering at him questioningly.

"What situations?" Nixon threw back, getting annoyed. He did not need to be lectured at this very moment about self-guilt. He was half-drunk, very disturbed, and really needed another bottle of whiskey.

"Men die in war. There's nothing you can do about that," the major said, finally averting his gaze toward the sunlight streaming in from the window.

"Thanks for the tip," Nixon grumbled, standing up and making his way toward the liquor cabinet on unsure footing.

"Will you stop being so nonchalant? Why don't you listen to what I'm saying, Lew?" Winters' voice had gotten louder, and he apparently was becoming exasperated with the annoyed responses he was getting.

Nixon opened the liquor cabinet, grabbed another bottle, opened it, and took a long, drink from it. Cringing, he looked down at the bottle; why didn't it taste as good anymore? "Nonchalant?" Nixon asked.

"Yeah, nonchalant."

He gazed at Winters a few moments before responding. "I'll tell you why I'm nonchalant. Because these aren't men who are dying in this war, Dick. They're boys. Boys who aren't old enough to support a family. Boys who have just graduated high school, who haven't even been to college. These boys learned how to use a hand grenade before they ever learned to hold down a beer. That's why I'm nonchalant. That's why I drink. It's because there are boys under my command who die each day, while I sit here in this goddamn house, writing letters home to their parents, explaining how their son died for a noble cause, when they really got blown apart before they were able to clear the aircraft over a jump zone. I'm sick of it, and I want to forget it."

Winters nodded ruefully, but spoke harshly. "Great logic, Lew. But here's the fact: these boys are going to die whether you finish that bottle of whiskey or not. So don't go blaming your drunkenness on the consequences of war."

Taken aback by the major's blunt statement, Nixon lowered his gaze to study the wooden floor. Winters had a point: his boys would die whether he drank or not. But drinking eases the pain of loss, makes it easier to let go…

He shrugged, not wanting to think anymore. He took another drink. "You're right, I guess. But drinking makes everything easier."

Winters looked at him long and hard before answering. "Doesn't seem to, does it? Still had that dream, and you were completely and utterly drunk."

Nixon stared at Winters, and remembered seeing him fall, shot in the chest, dripping blood, dead before he hit the ground…

"I'll be outside. Enjoy your drink."

Nixon opened his mouth to respond, but instead found himself simply watching Winters leave the room. Shaking his head angrily, he told himself that Dick didn't know what it was like, had no way to fathom what he had gone through, had no right to lecture him about his faults and vices.

But then he remembered Winters had seen all that he had. He had been with them at Normandy, at Bastogne, in Holland. He had commanded men in the field, been with them in the field when they died, called for a medic, tended to their wounds himself…all things Nixon had never done. Winters had probably seen more death than Nixon had. But how the hell did he deal with it?

He turned the smooth, glass bottle in his hand and studied the label. Finest Whiskey, it said on the front in English. He smiled. Finest whiskey.

He walked over to the window and looked out of it, feeling the warm rays of the late morning sun bathe his face comfortingly. He inhaled deeply, looking down out of the window to see Winters emerge from the house, cleanly shaved, impeccably dressed, his polished shoes and maple leaf insignia glistening in the bright light of day. He watched as the major crossed the street, walked down the sidewalk, saluting and smiling at his men as he made his way for Colonel Sink's headquarters for the morning debriefing. Nixon's eyes followed Winters as he walked down the next block, greeting a group of three sergeants, where he eventually turned the corner and out of sight.

Nixon sighed, and lifted the bottle to his lips. He drank the whiskey deeply, taking a few full swallows before coughing and grimacing. He had never tasted such a vile drink before in his life…why was it suddenly so bitter and unwelcoming?

Figuring it was simply a bad bottle, he reached for another one in the cabinet. He nearly cried out in dismay when the second bottle's contents tasted just as bad as the first's. "What the hell…?" he murmured.

The sun shone brightly down on him now, heating up the room and illuminating the gold color of the whiskey. He glanced down at the bottle, back out the window, and back down at the drink again. Suddenly, he began to laugh, an honest, full-hearted laugh that he hadn't experienced in what seemed to be a decade. He laughed so hard, in fact, that he felt tears stream to his eyes as he struggled to relieve the pain in his sides from being doubled over. Regaining his composure, Nixon wiped his eyes and took one, final look at the glass container in his hand.

"Winters, you turned me off of alcohol, you goddamn Quaker."

Placing the bottle down in his desk, Nixon turned and walked out of the room, still partially smiling, feeling better than he had in years. To forget was one thing, but to accept…well, that was entirely different.

~*~

Thanks for reading! Please review. I'm considering writing a series on Band of Brothers, so if I get a fairly good response, I'll continue. Thanks muchly!

Currahee!